Reign of Old Daein
by ancazur
Summary: A mysterious illness; a successor to the throne. The Four Riders remain loyal to the new king, but only they know the troubles that lurk within the keep. One general in particular feels the constant pull between loyalty and betrayal, and he must determine what is right for him and his future family. PoR prequel.
1. Chapter 1

Daein, the year 626

Chapter One

The corridor to General Gawain's quarters was long, dark, and dank. He preferred it that way. _It toughens me up_, he had said once, probably in jest, because he was the last person in Daein that needed any sort of "toughening up." Tall, narrow windows lined the hallway, but the sunlight never hit them. At least there was a warm cross breeze today; such warmth was rare this early in the spring, and everyone in Daein keep—Riders included—was going a little stir-crazy. But that didn't keep them from their duties.

Lanvega reached the end of the corridor, where the stone door to Gawain's quarters was gaping open. There was no need to close it, usually, being this isolated from the rest of the castle. It was impossible to sneak up on him when walking down the empty, echoing hall.

"General Gawain," Lanvega said, standing in the doorway.

Gawain was seated at his desk beneath a window; this one, at least, faced the sun. While the corners of his room were dark as always—he rarely lit the candles—a stream of sunlight poured through the solitary window, creeping toward the doorway. Lanvega felt its warmth on his feet.

"Ah, Lanvega." Gawain rose from his chair. He casually rolled up a piece of parchment, tucking it into the breastplate of his armor. "Something I can do for you?"

"I came to inform you that your student has arrived."

Gawain turned toward the window, squinting against the sunlight. "Already?" The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, amused. "I shouldn't be surprised. How long has he been here?"

"As long as it took me to reach your quarters," Lanvega simply replied.

Gawain reached for his sword, strapping the scabbard around his waist. "Then he has waited long enough."

As he closed the door and strode into the hallway, Lanvega fell into step beside him. "Do you mind if I accompany you? I am eager to see this recruit of yours. Rumor says he has promise."

"Do not waste your time with rumors. 'Promise' is an understatement. This child will surpass me one day." Their footsteps echoed in the corridor. "But yes, you are welcome to observe."

There was no trace of amusement in Gawain's voice, which left Lanvega to believe he did not offer this praise in jest. There had been many young men with wild dreams of knighthood, but many were unable to complete their training. It was one thing to train with a common soldier, but quite another to go up against one of the Riders.

The Four Riders were legendary. Still, there were many Daein citizens who refused to believe such men could exist. It seemed implausible that the goddess would bless these men with such might, leaving so many of her children weak and defenseless. But for those that had encountered the Four Riders face-to-face, they were believed to be a gift from the goddess. For too long Daein had lived under the shadow of the Begnion Empire, and now they could begin to stand on their own—for they had their King, and they had his Riders.

Gawain stepped into the courtyard, squinting to the sudden sunlight. Lanvega nodded silently before he slipped away to the corner of the courtyard. Gawain needn't ask where his student was waiting—the boy was hard to miss. Already his sword was brandished, balancing delicately in his hands as he sliced through the open air. Swordplay was an art form, and he was one of the greatest artists of his generation. While most boys his age would cry under the weight of the blade, he handled the steel sword as if it weighed nothing at all.

"Zelgius." Gawain approached slowly, as to not get hit in the line of fire, but Zelgius had noticed him long before he advanced.

"General," Zelgius replied, sheathing the sword before bowing low before his master.

"I trust you have not waited long," he replied with a slight smile. The smile was returned without comment. He always waited long.

Lanvega pretended to be occupied with inventory, rearranging the trainer weapons on the far end of the courtyard. But he fooled no one, and he hadn't exactly been concealing his watchful eye. Gawain hardly spoke to his student before they fell into a spar. This wasn't training—it was _combat_, and Zelgius moved as effortlessly as his master.

General Gawain held back, of course. Anyone else wouldn't have noticed, but his fellow Riders knew the difference. When Gawain was in battle, anyone within a four-foot radius could see the muscles of his neck bulging, the sweat dripping from his temples. Now, he hardly moved from his spot, blocking each of Zelgius's attacks with his own sword. But the longer they continued, the more agitated Zelgius became, and Gawain poked fun at him as he danced around his attacks.

"That the best you can do, boy?" Gawain let out a deep, throaty laugh. "Think you'll be a Rider with _that_ form? Come at me already!"

The way he suggested that Zelgius would be a Rider seemed strangely _natural_. Like there was no questioning it.

The courtyard door swung open. Gawain snuck a glance at the door, perhaps hoping his student would be distracted by it, but Zelgius never took his eyes off his master. Lanvega smiled as General Tauroneo closed the door behind him, approaching the training center he occupied.

"You know we have people to do this sort of thing," Tauroneo said, nodding at the trainer in Lanvega's hands. "Unless you are here for an entirely different reason?"

Lanvega looked up at the training session; Zelgius still hadn't landed a blow, but he wasn't tiring out, either. "Do you believe he'll be a Rider one day?"

Tauroneo turned toward the sparring match. Gawain had started circling his student, his cape lifting in the slight breeze. Zelgius twisted his body, avoiding an attack, then tried—yet failed—to catch his mentor in the ribs. "No," he replied evenly. "I'm not ready to retire." Lanvega chuckled.

There was no questioning why Tauroneo had come into the courtyard at all. They had both noticed when Gawain's student had been brought into the keep, and Lanvega knew it was a matter of time before Tauroneo joined them in the courtyard. They may have other duties, but a chance to see this "promising" student was an opportunity neither was keen on missing.

Lanvega stole a glance at Tauroneo as he watched the training. It was seldom that Tauroneo let his guard down. With a powerful military background like his, there had been no question that he, too, would follow in his family's shadow. He was determined that his sons follow suit, but not all had gone as planned—his elder son had lost an arm in battle, and rumor was that Lady Tauroneo left him when he had started training the younger son in his stead. It hadn't taken long to confirm the rumors, as neither the lady nor his sons had been seen at the keep in quite some time.

"That's enough," they heard Gawain say. He took in a deep breath, but was only slightly tired out. "You have improved." Zelgius bowed again, deeper this time than when they first greeted.

"It is a pleasure seeing one so young this interested in training," Tauroneo said to Lanvega, a hint of regret in his voice. "Many of our recruits want all the fame without any of the work."

"I fear for future generations," was all Lanvega said in reply.

Zelgius exited the courtyard after a brief discussion with Gawain, already knowing his way back to the castle's entrance. Gawain had long since abandoned the need for him to be escorted. He approached the training center, smiling as he clapped Tauroneo on the back.

"Tauroneo," he said, resting a hand on his shoulder. "What brings you here?"

"A bit of fresh air and good conversation," he replied.

Lanvega laughed. "Yes, and I'm empress of Begnion."

"Your boy there has natural talent," Tauroneo said, ignoring the jest. Gawain nodded, a slight smile crossing his lips.

* * *

Their formality ceased once night fell. It was a rare occasion that all four Riders had the time to go out together. Not that they went _out_—it would cause too much panic if all four were to be seen together in public—but Daein Keep had an adequate pub on the grounds, which they frequented after difficult battles or during much-needed downtime.

Gawain claimed their usual corner table, and the barmaid immediately brought over three steins of ale. "Bryce joining you tonight?" she asked, setting the steins on the table.

"If he can get away from his duties," Lanvega said, reaching for an ale.

"So that's a no," she said, smiling as she walked away.

Bryce's dedication to the king surpassed that of the other three combined. It was rumored that he slept outside the royal chamber in case of an evening attack, even though the rumor had been disproven numerous times. But his loyalty was formidable, and none denied his claims of protecting the royal line the rest of his life. While Gawain, Tauroneo, and Lanvega lied down their lives for the king, Bryce surpassed them all in the severity of his position. He followed orders without question, without hesitation.

"Bryce!" Gawain stood from the table, raising an arm in greeting to their comrade. The barmaid had a forth stein at the table before Bryce even sat down.

"His highness sleeping soundly?" Gawain asked, taking his seat again. Tauroneo and Lanvega hid smiles behind their hands.

"I do wish that rumor would be squashed," Bryce said with a sigh. "Of all the ridiculous—"

"It's just a joke, Bryce," Tauroneo said. "Come on, drink up."

He didn't need the invitation—he had emptied half his stein in one gulp.

The pub was emptier than usual, which they tried their hardest to ignore. It wasn't that people were hard at work, or tucked in with their families—they were dying, and rapidly. A plague had broken out across Daein, and despite their attempts to quarantine the castle it had infiltrated nonetheless. None of their priests or physicians were able to determine the cause, and the surrounding nations were seemingly unaffected. Daein was living on hearsay and speculation; nothing could be confirmed.

Part of Gawain's motivation for their "night out" was to escape these troubles, but it was apparent that it sat in all their hearts. While His Highness was still in the peak of health, his daughter had recently fallen ill. And there was no hiding the fact that a distant cousin had died only last week.

Gawain's thoughts drifted to Elena. She was, after all, a far more pleasant thought than the trials of the royal court. Still, he couldn't forget the first time he saw her at Palmeni Temple. He had just returned from battle, beaten and bloody, and Elena hadn't hesitated to offer him water and healing. It had been a bold move, asking a priestess to accompany him to supper...

"Gawain." Lanvega's voice was laced with annoyance.

"What?" He was more annoyed that they broke his reverie.

"Your thoughts?" Lanvega didn't offer further explanation, but Gawain's hard stare bored into him. He sighed. "His Majesty, Gawain. What will happen if this illness were to take him?"

"There are successors to the throne," he replied simply.

"Do you care so little for the welfare of His Majesty?" Bryce asked, visibly offended. He sat up straighter, pushing his empty stein to the edge of the table.

Gawain made a move to rise, but Tauroneo placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Of course we care," he said, the muscles in his arm flexing as he tried to keep Gawain in place. "But think logically, General Bryce. As much as it pains us to imagine the worst, we cannot avoid the possibility. Gawain is right; there _are_ successors, and while they may be young I have no doubt of their success with the blood of Daein running through their veins."

The barmaid reappeared, sloshing more ale into their empty steins. When she was a safe distance away again, Lanvega allowed himself a heavy sigh. "It is unfortunate that we must have this discussion at all."

"So let's not." Gawain rose, his chair scraping heavily across the floor. The three looked up, surprised by his sudden shift in demeanor. "I have an appointment."

Bryce narrowed his eyes. "At this hour?"

Tauroneo laced his hands in front of his lips, failing to conceal a knowing smile. "A man must be available to answer to all calls, at all hours of the day. It is our duty as Riders of Daein." He rose as well, tossing a handful of gold coins onto the table. He lowered his voice so only Gawain could hear. "And of lovesick fools," he added. "I'll walk with you; it's time I retire for the evening." He bowed his head to Bryce and Lanvega. "Good night, gentlemen."

Gawain had expected, however, that Tauroneo would not be making an immediate trip to his quarters. He enjoyed the company of his closest comrade as they wound their way through the castle's halls. The soldier manning the main gate bowed low at their approach, which they simultaneously nodded in respectful acknowledgement. The temperature had dropped drastically compared to the comfort of earlier in the day, but the chill was greatly welcomed through their lungs after the dank of the basement pub.

"Have you decided on a date yet?" Tauroneo asked, when they out of the soldier's earshot.

"Some days it seems it will never happen," Gawain said with a sigh. "She is so often preoccupied with this blasted illness that it is a miracle we see each other at all." He lowered his voice, despite the solitude of the road. "And with our own troubles brewing within the castle..."

He didn't have to continue. Gawain often brushed off the troubles that plagued the royal court, but he felt the burden as well. Lanvega has voiced it well enough at the pub—there _was_ a chance the king would fall ill, and what would happen to the future of Daein then? He was grateful that he was not asked to attend the meetings discussing the king's successors. From all he heard from General Bryce, he wanted nothing to do with the organization of the family line. The successorship had been plotted out to the most distant of cousins, and continually revamped and redrawn as more and more of the royal family dropped dead from the unnamed plague.

"Thank Ashera it hasn't reached one of us," Gawain said. Though their conversation made no mention of the plague itself, it was the undercurrent of all conversations, the unspoken horror only hinted at.

Tauroneo nodded. "I would feel more comfortable knowing we, too, had our successors, but so far none of the applicants have been adequate."

For anyone else the statement would have been boastful, but Tauroneo spoke it plainly, as if nothing but common knowledge. The Four Riders held the highest honor of Daein, answering only to the king himself, and there were few who even considered they could be worthy of such a position. It was a rank that could not be obtained by mere luck.

As the stables came into view, the stablemaster immediately approached before they reached the doors.

"'Evening, Generals," he said, bowing low. "General Gawain, your steed is ready for you." He turned to his companion, face awash with anxiety. "General Tauroneo, I wasn't expecting you. My apologies. Shall I prepare your horse as well?"

"No need. I was just taking a stroll." The stablemaster's expression relaxed, and he bowed again before returning to the stable. Tauroneo turned to Gawain, taking his hand in both of his to shake. "Enjoy your time together," he said, keeping a firm hold of his hand. "These moments are precious and few."

"Tauroneo..." But the other general released him, turning away before Gawain could say anything more. Tauroneo kept his back to the stables, raising an arm in farewell as he took a slow trudge back to Daein Keep.

The stablemaster returned quickly with the horse in tow. He was a beaut—a tall, formidable Clydesdale with a shining black coat. All Four Riders had similar steeds, but Gawain liked to think that his was best. The horse had selected _him_, approaching him immediately when he first visited the stables all those years ago. _Marek has taken a liking to you_, His Majesty had said, as the horse snorted lovingly against Gawain's neck.

Marek whinnied in appreciation as Gawain stroked his black, glossy mane. "That's a good boy," he murmured, before hoisting himself on his back. "You know the way, don't you?" He guided the horse to the familiar path en route to Palmeni Temple, but he hardly had to steer at all.

With one hand on the reins, Gawain reached into his breastplate to pull out the small, rolled-up parchment. _Lovesick fool indeed_, he thought, unrolling the paper. It smelled faintly of lilacs, and the black script etched into the paper filled him with a sense of relief and longing. He gripped the letter firmly as Marek broke into a comfortable trot, reading it over yet again.

_My Gawain,_

_Too long it has been since we've had a moment to ourselves. I find myself reminiscing over the summer days when we had time to sneak to the hills, when you would hold my hand in the fields until the sun set over the horizon. It may have been mere months past, but it feels like a lifetime ago._

_Darling, it pains me to share that the situation at Palmeni has not improved. So many have fallen ill, and there is nothing we can do to ease their suffering. At the very least I can sing to them, and they enjoy hearing my voice. Oh, Gawain, if only there was something I could do to help them. This may sound heartless, but I am grateful at least that their suffering does not last long, and that they pass on quickly. May Ashera bless their souls._

_I pray that the situation at Daein Keep is better than here in the countryside. My heart aches for our next meeting, when I can feel the comfort of your arms around me. I feel it is the only thing now that can soothe my heart._

_All my love,_

_Elena_

Gawain rolled up the parchment, already wearing down at the creases, and tucked it back into his armor. With a request like that, how could he not make the trip as soon as he was able?

Marek was picking up the pace, as eager to reach Palmeni Temple as his master. Gawain bent himself over the horse's back as they accelerated. The cold air stung his exposed skin, his hair flapping angrily across his forehead. Tauroneo was the only one who had any indication where he was headed this evening. Not that the blue-haired priestess was a secret—His Majesty certainly knew of their relationship—but Gawain preferred to keep his private life _private_, only sharing with the others what was required for them to know.

But General Tauroneo wasn't like the others. Gawain had been surprised when Tauroneo had confided in him that he wife left; he claimed the others wouldn't understand his distress. Perhaps he was right. He was only courting Elena at the time, but to imagine a life without her... it was unfathomable.

The thought of her caused his heart to constrict again, and he smacked the reins against Marek's sides. His steed snorted, but lowered his head as he broke into a gallop.

The horse slowed down without instruction as they approached Palmeni, already knowing their destination. There was no other reason for Gawain to travel this far, and Marek had seen the temple enough times to recognize it as well as Gawain had. He tethered the reins to a pole, murmuring praise in the horse's ear to settle him down. When Marek's heartbeat had calmed and he started to graze, Gawain turned toward the temple.

All thoughts en route to this location were focused solely on his arrival, but he felt an odd sensation of anxiety as he walked to the doors. Part of him wanted to stay behind and tend to his horse, but he was not here for himself. He was here for _her_, and the longing in his chest returned. _She needed him_.

He let himself into the temple. Candles around the sanctuary were burned down low, and a violet-haired priestess was humming softly as she walked the room, replacing candles that had extinguished. Gawain couldn't hide the clang of the door as it closed behind him, or his heavy footsteps as he entered the sanctuary. The priestess looked up, her face easing into a warm smile when she recognized their visitor. They nodded to each other as he passed, neither desiring to break the calm silence of the temple. He let himself into a narrow hallway, then knocked lightly on the third door on the left.

"Just a moment," said the voice within, a voice that spread warmth through his limbs. When the door opened, he hadn't realized he was clenching his fists until her face released his anguish.

Only he would have been able to notice the subtle change in her demeanor. While her lips had formed into a smile, her eyes looked lost, far-away. She tugged at his wrist to pull him in the room, and it was not until she closed the door that she collapsed into his chest, burying her face; he instinctively wrapped his arms around her petite waist. With Elena being several inches shorter than he, he was able to comfortably rest his cheek on the top of her head.

"I know," was all he had to say.

She wasn't going to cry—it was seldom that she did—but by the way she pressed into him, hiding her face, he secretly wished that she would. She kept a brave front, but there were moments he would feel reassured if she would share a shower of tears. That, at least, was easy to read. That was easy to comfort.

Elena pulled away, but she held both of his hands in hers. Gawain marveled at the difference between her small hands and that of General Tauroneo's. His fellow general was able to enclosed both his hands in his, but even when Elena stretched her fingers she was unable to maintain a strong hold.

"Oh, Gawain, it is awful. There is nothing we can do for these people. And"—She gripped his hands harder—"I hear... at the royal palace..."

"What is it?"

She looked down, staring at their interlocked hands. Her voice was so low that he strained to hear her reply. "It is not safe. The princess..."

So word had spread, it seemed. Gawain had received her letter only yesterday, and already she was aware of the fate of the royal family. Gawain wriggled his hands free, pulling her back into an embrace. Palmeni Temple wasn't located terribly far from Daein Keep, but if word had already begun to spread of the royal family's illness, it would not be much longer before news traveled to the remainder of the country.

He rested his chin on her head, gathering a handful of her hair to feel it slide through his fingers. "I am all right," he said, partially to comfort her, but also to convince himself. "The Riders have been untouched." But how long could this last? The plague was a quick killer; she would never know if something were to happen to him, until he failed to reply to her letters.

With a sigh, Elena pulled away. She moved to sit on the edge of the small bed, staring blankly out the window. Gawain found it useless to voice his worries here. She had been enduring enough with those who sought refuge at Palmeni, and the last thing he wanted was to burden her with any worries of him or his comrades. He sat beside her on the bed, a respectable distance away, but close enough to reach for her hand. Their entwined fingers rested on the sheet in the space between them.

"Come," Gawain said, squeezing her hand. "Let's take a stroll. I'm sure you've been trapped in here all day."

Elena looked at him, truly looking into his eyes for the first time since his arrival. There was a spark of the vibrant, young woman he knew. The woman to which he proposed. Her face relaxed into a smile, as if by that simple suggestion all her troubles had melted away. "I would like that very much."

The sanctuary was nearly empty as they crossed through it, and Elena sucked in the cold, night air the moment they stepped outdoors. She wrapped an arm through the crook of Gawain's elbow. There wasn't much of anything in terms of scenery around the temple, but they were content taking a lap around the building. Elena paused before Marek, the steed whinnying his approval as she stroked his forehead. He prodded her hand with his muzzle, as if shooing them away to take their stroll.

The fresh air did her good, and Gawain could feel her muscles relax. She arched her neck, staring up at the dark sky. There was a thick layer of clouds overhead, obstructing their view of the stars, and even the full moon appeared dark and hazy. Elena grasped his arm, keeping to the outer wall of the temple as to not wander far.

Gawain considered bringing up the forthcoming marriage, but there was good reason why they hadn't yet determined when it would be—they couldn't narrow down the logistics. He couldn't leave Daein Keep, surely, and while she was certainly willing to relocate to another temple it would be impossible with her current duties at Palmeni. Perhaps once the plague had been eradicated, but when would that be? Was there any end to it?

As if reading his mind, Elena squeezed his arm with hers. "Someday this won't be necessary," she said. "Trying to fit in time to see each other, and the need to communicate only through letters."

He rested his free hand on her arm. "Yes."

"Gawain." She smiled up at him. "I cannot wait for the day I can wake up beside you, and when I can go to sleep at night knowing you are safe beside me."

He stopped walking so he could turn to face her. She was everything he believed a priestess should be—her smile comforting, her touch gentle as her hands rested tentatively on his hips. Like she was still unsure whether this was permitted, even though—he would never admit this aloud—he _waited_ for that touch; he _needed_ those small hands on his body. Gawain leaned down to kiss her temple, his lips lingering on her skin.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

It would almost be a shame to interrupt the lesson, but General Tauroneo had no choice in the matter. He burst through the doors of the courtyard—neither Gawain nor Zelgius broke concentration—taking a detour through the training area. He selected one of the heavier trainer lances then approached the spar with caution, desiring neither one of their blades to impale his skin.

He thrust the lance in the space between them; Zelgius's sword sliced the spear clean off. Both Gawain and Zelgius stopped, panting, then narrowed their eyes at Tauroneo as he examined the end of the broken trainer.

"That was an impressive blow," he said casually.

Gawain's reply was not as pleasant. "I pray this is something urgent."

"Yes." He stole a glance at Zelgius. "His Majesty is in need of our attention. Now."

"Master—" Zelgius started.

"We are done for today." Gawain sheathed his sword, resolutely turning toward the castle. "You are free to continue on your own, if you'd like," he added, and neither general was surprised when Zelgius didn't put away his sword.

There were few matters whose importance overshadowed the training of a potential future Rider. Impending war was one. But Daein Keep would be a flurry of soldiers if there had been an invasion, and the corridors were virtually empty. The solemn silence was a constant reminder that most of the castle's occupants—including the majority of the royal family—had been claimed by the plague.

But Gawain knew the significance of this meeting the moment they approached His Majesty's quarters; this was no war. Bryce and Lanvega waited for them, faces stoical, but Gawain knew them well enough to sense the veiled anxiety.

"My apologies for interrupting your training," Bryce said, his voice unnaturally monotone.

"That is the least of our worries," Gawain answered, waving a hand to brush off the concern. He looked over their heads to the closed doors of His Majesty's quarters. It seemed larger today, darker, than usual. His eyes focused on the oversized crest of Daein carved into the stained wood. "Let's get this over with." Lanvega turned to open the doors.

The room smelled heavily of spices and embalming fluid. Priestesses still scurried around His Majesty's quarters, preparing what they could before the body was removed for burial.

The corpse was dressed in its finest, donning the vivid red robes and charcoal black armor Daein. Each of its cold fingers was decorated with an oversized gemstone, a heavy gold crown squeezed onto its head.

Gawain passed through the group of priestesses without apology, though words were unnecessary—they automatically moved to create a path to the bed. His eye wandered only when glancing a fringe of blue beneath a priestess's hood, though there was no possible way she would be there.

_Thank the goddess for that_, he thought.

Gawain fell to one knee beside His Majesty's bedside, bowing low. The remaining Riders followed suit. As Tauroneo knelt beside him, he felt his fellow general's hand pressed hard over his back. The commotion of the room settled, and they could hear the repeated open and closing of the doors as the priestesses left their post. Lanvega was the first to raise his head, scanning the room to ensure they were the only ones to remain. He stood slowly.

Tauroneo rose, his heavy armor clanking as he straightened his body beside the bed. He offered a hand to Gawain, who gratefully accepted it to stand.

"Now begins a new reign in Daein," Tauroneo said, trying—yet failing—to keep his voice steady.

Bryce's head became visible across the bed as he finally stood beside Lanvega. "We shall serve our new king with the same honor and respect we have upheld in our reign as the Four Riders."

"Hear, hear," the remaining three replied.

The entranceway to His Majesty's quarters opened wide, banging loudly against the inside wall. "Good." All four turned their heads simultaneously.

It was not the first time they had laid eyes on Prince Ashnard, but they were still shocked by his sudden change in appearance. It did not take long for him to be clothed in the royal colors. He now stood in the scarlet robes of Daein lined in fur, his bulk occupying the entirety of the doorway. He smiled. It was not at all pleasant; there was a gleam in his eye that made Gawain hesitate, albeit briefly.

The Four Riders approached Prince Ashnard at once in a straight, uniform line. The clatter of armor was deafening in the silent room as they knelt on one knee. They lowered their heads, foreheads nearly touching the ground.

"We are at your service," Bryce said, his voice muffled by the carpeted floor, "Ashnard, king of Daein."

"Excellent!" Ashnard spread his arms wide. "This will be much easier with such"—he paused—"_loyal_ subjects."

With his head still lowered, Gawain gritted his teeth. His Majesty's body had hardly grown cold and already Ashnard was planning his reign. He had a fleeting thought, but immediately pushed it out of his mind—how could the entire royal family die and a man like _this_ was left to rule their country?

_Ashera, watch over us_.

"Get up, get up," Ashnard said impatiently, and he waited for the clatter of armor to cease before speaking again. He peered between their line of shoulders at the corpse laid out on the bed. "Get that thing out of here. And have the priestesses change the mattress."

* * *

_My dearest Elena,_

_I am writing this as quickly as possible in hopes you receive the news from me before second-hand rumors. I will not sugarcoat the truth—His Majesty has passed, and Prince Ashnard has been named successor. The coronation has not yet been planned, since this change is so sudden, but he has _

Gawain paused, tapping the end of the quill on the parchment. He considered the possibility that this letter could be lost, or intercepted.

_already claimed command so our country will not be thrown into chaos. He seems to be_

He looked up and stared out the window, squinting against the sunlight.

_capable and diligent._

_I cannot deny that there have been times I've wished for you to be at Daein Keep, but for once I was grateful that you have remained at Palmeni. I would not have wanted you to witness the death of our king, nor be the one with the grueling task of preparing his body for burial. Elena, it pains me to think you see these things daily. I have not realized the severity what you have gone through until now. I pray for the day this ceases and I am able to shield you from life's hardships. This is my vow to you._

_Many things keep me within the walls of the keep now, but I will come to you as soon as I am able._

_Fondly,_

_Gawain_

The changes at Daein Keep were not gradual. Many positions had been vacated due to the plague, and Ashnard did not hesitate to fill them with men he deemed worthy. No one questioned his authority, not only because he was soon to be crowned king—He was a decorated soldier himself. Many knew his name for his success in a Daein-Begnion battle, where he single-handedly defeated the enemy army. This gained him glory in the eyes of His Majesty, and tales of his bravery as a warrior, thus Daein did not fear when he began to rise to power.

Only those within the keep were unsettled, though there were few who could to put a name to it. The Four were at his constant command, sent to battle in a number of minor skirmishes that they wouldn't ordinarily be bothered with. But they knew they were being tested. Despite being the famed Four Riders, Ashnard claimed to know nothing of their skill and they had to prove themselves, again and again, spending many nights on nameless, needless battlefields.

It was months before Gawain was able to meet with Zelgius, his student having appeared for every training session even if Gawain could not. And his master often left for battle suddenly, without word, leaving no time to send him notice about his absence. But Zelgius was not fazed by this. He took pride in his mentor, and despite his usually neutral demeanor the excitement over finally seeing Gawain lit up his young face.

"I suspect you will soon seek a position in the Daein army," Gawain said, once they began to spar.

"Yes," was Zelgius's simple reply. There was no hesitation in his answer, and Gawain could swear he saw some of his own natural stubbornness in the boy's features. But there was still a young trainee hidden beneath the tough front. His eyes gave him away, always searching Gawain's and seeking his approval. Gawain refused to acknowledge it. "I don't suppose you would help me in my goals?"

Gawain's laugh was deep and brash, which threw Zelgius off-guard; he hesitated only briefly but it was enough for his master to nudge the tip of his blade into his ribs. "If you have queries like that, then you have not learned anything from me at all."

When Gawain pulled the sword back Zelgius put a hand to his stomach, but only a layer of cloth had been torn. He hadn't pierced skin at all. "But you have also taught me to never stop questioning, for the moment you cease to pursue the answer is when you begin a slow and steady death."

Gawain twirled his blade, forming a slow, smooth arc in the air as he stared steadily at Zelgius. The moment his student's muscles slackened he took a swing, trying to catch him off-guard again, but Zelgius had anticipated him this time. Their blades crossed and pressed against each other, metal scraping metal.

"You've much improved." Gawain smiled over the _X_ of their swords. "But you know I will not vouch for you. Your skills are enough to prove yourself worthy."

It was several hours before Zelgius was dismissed, even though Gawain had a number of duties he was meant to accomplish during that time. And he had planned to sleep early this evening, having to wake before dawn the following day for yet another skirmish with neighboring Crimea. It was a curious things, these minor border skirmishes—were there always so many of them, or had he been excused from them because they were a waste of his time? Surely a small battalion could handle whatever it was they were being sent to do.

But when he woke the following morning, he was the only soldier prepared for battle. A flood of rain was pounding against the castle walls as he strode down the corridor, water seeping through cracks in the windows. When he approached the grand foyer, he was mildly surprised to see he was the only one present. He waited impatiently for Prince Ashnard, slowly pacing the foyer. Rain slammed against the closed windows, the shutters banging loudly in their frames.

The foyer was still deserted, most of the castle's occupants asleep in their quarters, so he was grateful to finally hear the increasing clatter of armor from the main corridor. Prince Ashnard materialized from the darkened hall, fitted in his black Daein armor and floor-length cape. He passed Gawain without a word, but crooked a finger in silent indication that he should follow.

When they crossed over the main threshold, Ashnard ignored the guard bowing low to them. Gawain nodded subtly in passing. The rain was worse than he had imagined, pelting down hard like arrows. The damp was already seeping beneath their armor, their undershirts sticking to their backs. Gawain twisted his shoulders, trying to unstick the rough fabric to no avail. He gritted his teeth as he kept pace with Prince Ashnard, a respectable distance behind him.

He had to shout over the sound of rain for Ashnard to hear him. "Are we the only ones to be in battle today, my prince?"

Ashnard turned his head slightly, his face revealing no hint of emotion. "You assume incorrectly," he said, failing to raise his voice. Gawain strained his ears to hear. "_You_ will be in battle today. I will be observing."

"I..." Gawain increased his steps, nearly walking beside him. "Observing, my prince?"

"Keep your place," Ashnard said, prodding Gawain's ribs with a finger. "Do not think you are yet worthy to walk beside me."

"My apologies, my prince."

Ashnard grunted. "And you will call me king."

Gawain's hand fell to the hilt of his sword, squeezing until he could feel the angry blood rushing through his fingers. "That title would ordinarily not be in use until your coronation, my prince."

He glanced backward. "There is no one here to correct me, is there? _I _am the highest ruling power in Daein. _Keep your place_."

It was clear that he was not referring to Gawain's stride this time, and he kept his mouth shut. But his hand remained on the sword, his thumb running over the jewel-encrusted hilt over and over again.

They passed by the stables, the stablemaster visible in the entranceway, as if waiting for them. He cast Gawain a pleading look, hair dripping wet over his eyes, but neither said a word. The stablemaster retreated into the warmth of the stable as soon as it was obvious they would not be needing his services. Gawain had hoped that Marek would be accompanying him to the border, but he knew better than to get his hopes up. He was meant to take this three-day journey on foot, with Prince—no, King—Ashnard, with no provisions. There were few things that surprised him anymore.

Several hours had passed before Ashnard ceased walking on the worn path, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Luckily the rain had let up slightly, through a fine mist was steadily falling. Gawain hardly noticed the damp, however, when he recognized their location—Ashnard was standing in the middle of the road, staring straight at the peak of Palmeni Temple. It took all his control to say nothing, all his willpower to stay rooted where he was.

"This is Palmeni Temple, is it not?" King Ashnard asked.

"It is," Gawain answered, fighting to keep his voice steady. He did not elaborate, and he prayed to Ashera that he would not have to. But King Ashnard simply nodded, turning with a swish of his sodden cloak, and continued down the road. Gawain allowed himself a breath of relief, continually glancing back at Palmeni until it was out of sight.

Gawain considered whether the other Riders had endured a job such as this. Had there been a time any of them had disappeared for days on end? The prospect was unlikely. King Ashnard would never be absent from Daein Keep for so long, especially since he had not yet undergone his coronation. It would do him little good to stay away from the castle for an extended period of time, and Gawain was slightly gladdened by this news. It meant that this battle—or whatever it was—would not last nearly as long as he thought. But if they were not going to the Daein-Crimea border, where were they going? Ashnard had still not revealed their destination, and he could not be troubled to ask. He would follow regardless.

The sun hadn't yet fallen, glowing orange over the horizon, when Ashnard stopped. Gawain thought he would be instructed to hunt some game, hopefully roast up something for them to eat, but instead His Majesty extended an arm to point into the valley below.

"We have company," he said. Ashnard's body blocked his view, and Gawain's heart was hammering against his ribcage as he moved aside to look into the valley.

"_Laguz_?" Try as he might, Gawain couldn't suppress his shock.

It was not a full-sized army—not even close—but the feline creatures below were far from ordinary citizens. Most were in their shifted forms, and it was like a sea of yellow and orange as they crossed the damp, green grass. Only a few were unshifted, falling to the rear of the pack, presumably saving their strength for the upcoming battle.

The upcoming battle—_he_ was the upcoming battle.

Their scouts let out a whine, hissing and shrieking to their companions in the rear. A chorus of growls rose from the valley, the mass of cats and tigers arching their backs simultaneously when they spotted the two beorc looming over them.

"Now is time for you to prove you are worthy to possess the title Rider of Daein."

Gawain couldn't help himself; he boiled over with questions. "Were these soldiers provoked? Why is an army of Gallia on Daein soil?"

Ashnard _hmph_ed in disapproval, focus his attention only on the approaching Gallian soldiers. "If you question my orders again, _General_, there will _be_ no chance to prove your worth."

He had no choice; the army was fast approaching.

"And General?" King Ashnard's hand moved to the hilt of his own blade, which shone beneath his heavy cloak even in the dim sunlight. "I pray that none of these foul creatures reach me."

Without a word, Gawain charge down the hillside. His anger was just the fuel he needed. He unsheathed his blade, cutting at the first cat who tried to jump at him. This was _madness_, but this was also his survival. He was far beyond proving himself, and he hardly cared for his position at the moment; he focused instead on getting out alive.

Ashnard's laughter echoed in the valley, further fuelling his rage. Gawain roared, his voice traveling above the cats' hissing. One tiger snagged at his cape, another scraped the armor shielding his calf. He felt the vulnerary at his waist, but he had no chance to take it. Stopping his movements at any time would be something akin to suicide.

He pushed his body harder than he ever had, more than in his training with Zelgius, more than in those historic battles with Begnion. His biceps and the muscles in his thighs ached, constantly crouching and holding the blade and swiping at anyone who approached. They weren't all dead, but immobilization was enough. He thought of the sheer number of victims this bloody skirmish would take, but he replaced the thought with only cutting through their ranks. This was no time for sentimentality. This was no time to think of the families these soldiers were leaving behind. Blood was dripping into his eyes; he knew not whether it was his. He swiped it away with the back of his hand, though that was also coated in blood.

Then the valley stood silent. He teetered in the center of the carnage, scanning the bloodied figures surrounding him. The ones who were dead maintained their animal forms, but the injured had unshifted. A man at his feet groaned, trying to take one last swipe at Gawain's leg. He twisted out of his reach.

"Please accept my apologies for this," he said, voice low, unsure if anyone could hear. He wiped his blade on his cape before sliding it back into the scabbard.

Then, the distinct sound of applause. Bile churned in his throat as he looked up at King Ashnard. He was smiling widely, clapping furiously, very obviously pleased. "Advance, General Gawain," he said, his voice echoing through the hillside. Cautiously, Gawain made his way up the hill. His trudge was slowed by the slick, bloodied ground and the constant need to sidestep corpses. "You are worthy of your title," he said. "That was magnificent."

Gawain was too exhausted to answer, and a renewed anger set his jaw in a firm line. But King Ashnard was staring at him expectantly, willing him to speak. "I am glad you think so, Your Highness."

Without another word, Ashnard turned for the journey back. Occasionally he would come out with praise, reliving a part of the battle, but he mostly remained silent. Gawain's exhaustion was overwhelming, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide just how much he wanted to collapse.

Palmeni Temple shone like a beacon of Ashera when it appeared over the horizon. Gawain did not stop to think when he requested to spend the night there. He felt foolish asking—he felt like a small child, asking a parent for a favor.

But King Ashnard granted the request, claiming that he deserved it. With a promise to return at sunrise, Gawain turned off the road and set down the familiar path to Palmeni.

Elena was horrified when he entered the sanctuary. She approached his swiftly, resting both hands on his cheeks and checking every area that was splattered with blood.

He covered his own hands over hers. "It's all right. Most of it isn't mine." He looked down at his body, the black armor stained a deep shade of red. "I think."

She asked no questions, only taking his hand to lead him to a back room. It was a small washroom, with a copper tub beneath a window and an empty bucket upside down beside it. "The pump is just outside this window," she said. "I'll pass you the bucket to fill the tub."

"Elena, I don't need—"

She pressed a finger to his lips. "Shush. And get that armor off."

It was a relief to shed himself of the heavy armor, which he piled in a far corner so he would not have to look at the blood coating it. The window was fairly high off the ground, but he could see the bucket appear as Elena reached up to pass it to him. It wasn't long before the tub was filled, and he could strip down and lower himself into it. He sighed. The water was brutally cold, shocking every one of his nerves.

Elena returned to the washroom and immediately averted her eyes. "You could have waited for me to return first," she said, "so I could retrieve this." She hastily moved to the corner where his armor was slumped, deliberately turning her back to his naked form.

Gawain laughed. The smile on his face almost felt foreign; he hadn't smiled at all that day. "Elena, we will be married soon. Quit being so modest."

She turned her head slightly, pulling a wash rag from her satchel to toss it at his face. "But we are not married yet! Don't be crude." She crouched to gather the bulky armor, rising slowly as it balanced precariously in her arms. "I presume you will be needing a place to sleep?" He covered his mouth with the rag when he chuckled; she only narrowed her eyes before scurrying out.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"By Ashera, what happened to you?"

Gawain closed the door to Tauroneo's quarters, then collapsed onto the bed with a grunt. He didn't feel so bad, physically, considering the overexertion at battle the previous day. The breather at Palmeni helped as well, and not only because of the bath. Despite her playful protests, Elena had returned to the washroom to scrub his back, which had evolved into more of a shoulder rub than anything related to washing. His skin still tingled when he reapplied his armor. Gawain rubbed his neck.

But Tauroneo's concern was his appearance, which was awful. Elena had healed his scrapes well enough—better than most of healers at Daein Keep—but nothing could stop the bruises from blossoming on his skin. He touched the purple-green bruise at his jaw, but smiled when recalling the delicate kiss it received early that morning.

"Laguz," Gawain simply replied. Tauroneo pulled his desk chair to the bed as Gawain recounted the tale.

It wasn't until he had reached the end of his recollection that he realized his error. When the two had stood staring down into the valley, Gawain had very clearly called the enemy _laguz_. Ashnard had not commented on the slip, perhaps too overcome with excitement over the approaching battle, but no one in Daein used that term. They were sub-humans, through and through.

Gawain and Tauroneo, however, trusted each other enough to use their proper name behind closed doors. They had spent enough time in foreign lands to understand that these creatures—these _people_—were not sub-human at all; they had their own culture and lives similar to their own, to the beorc nations. Gawain maintained the front before the rest of the Daein citizenry, but the term never felt right on his tongue.

Gawain finished the tale, conveniently omitting the detour before returning home. But Tauroneo chuckled lightly. "Don't think I didn't notice your absence last night," he said. "There is only one other place you would spend the evening."

Gawain leaned against the wall. "I can hide nothing from you."

"And how is she?"

He grinned. "As lovely as ever." Tauroneo tried to return the smile, but it held a pained expression that Gawain had failed to notice earlier. "What is it?"

He sat back and folded his arms, and Gawain said nothing while Tauroneo continued this display of fidgeting. He tapped a foot, then crossed it over his leg, then laced his fingers together while clearing his throat.

"I've been demoted."

Gawain shot bolt upright; he felt a slight wave of dizziness when he stood. "What in blazes are you talking about?"

Tauroneo shrugged, feigning indifference. He rose from the chair, turning his back to his friend to stare out the window. "His Majesty has found me unfit for service. He has offered me a position as commander."

Gawain remained motionless, staring at Tauroneo's backside. He still wore the armor of a Rider, as if he had nothing else to clothe himself with. And perhaps he didn't. Gawain could not imagine wearing anything but the black armor of the Riders. "Commanding what? Will you accept?"

There was a violent knock on the chamber door in Tauroneo's hesitation. He did not move from the window, but nodded slightly to permit Gawain to answer.

"General Lanvega," Gawain said, pulling the door open.

Lanvega pushed through, slamming it closed behind him. He opened his mouth to speak but paused when seeing Gawain's bruised face. He proffered no hint of surprise, however, which troubled Gawain more than if he had said anything at all. "You are no longer required to address me as 'general.' I am retiring from my duty as a Rider."

Both Gawain and Tauroneo stood still as stone, faces expressionless. Lanvega looked back and forth between the two, though his gaze held longer on Gawain. _He knows_, Gawain realized. _These marks are no surprise to him_. He scrutinized Lanvega's face, trying to make out some hint of battle, but he appeared unchanged from when they encountered the previous day. The same deep wrinkles and scars decorated his dark skin.

"I am fortunate that my injuries cannot be seen without removing my armor," he said, reading the curiosity on Gawain's face.

He was slightly taken aback by Lanvega's casual admittance, but pressed regardless. "What did he make you do?"

"Gawain." Tauroneo stepped forward, putting a hand on his shoulder. He squeezed a little too firmly. "Please, do not make me listen to something like this again."

Lanvega released the strap of the armor on his arm, which fell to the floor with a _clang_. He rolled up a sleeve to reveal a grey bandage around his forearm. He winced as he unrolled it, slowly, the fabric peeling from the skin. Tauroneo covered his mouth and Gawain _wanted _to look away, but he could not tear his eyes from the exposed arm. They had been long accustomed to scarred and bloody skin, but the open wound pulsed, the skin tinged green. He gritted his teeth as he rewrapped it quickly.

"I pray you visit a healer," Tauroneo said, once he had gained his composure. The set of his shoulders was rigid, but the color had drained from his face.

"I have." Lanvega tried to laugh, but it was pathetically forced. "It is looking much better."

"So you are retiring," Gawain said, as casual as possible.

Lanvega kept his voice low, glancing nervously at the door behind him. "I cannot work under a man like that. I agree with neither his ideals nor his methods."

Gawain focused on a knot in the wooden door behind him, unable to meet his stare. He may have been prone to fits of anger over the past two days, but he was still one of the Riders. Gawain felt unfit to reply to such accusations against the king, even if a small part of him agreed with Lanvega's bold opinion. But he knew that any animosity within him was still a product of yesterday's battle, of the dull ache in his muscles. He had proven himself. He was worthy in the eyes of King Ashnard.

"Lanvega, please." Tauroneo broke the silence. "It is unwise to voice such opinions in front of a general of Daein. You must still understand where General Gawain's loyalties lie."

Lanvega moved to bow his head in apology, but stopped midway. He raised his eyes to Tauroneo. "Only Gawain? And yourself, general?"

"I will leave you to discuss these matters," Gawain interrupted, pushing past them both. "Tauroneo, please come by my quarters this evening if you are able." Before either could reply, he had closed the door firmly behind him. Gawain waited in the hallway before leaving, hoping to hear some remnant of conversation. But these wooden doors were so thick, and their voices kept low, that he heard nothing at all. Just as well.

He was increasingly troubled by Tauroneo's demotion. Gawain's thoughts were a jumbled mess as he slowed his walk toward his quarters. But when he reached the intersecting halls, he glanced down the one leading to Bryce's quarters. He turned without a second thought.

When he reached the door, he still hadn't prepared what he planned to say. His injuries felt more pronounced as his blood pumped harder in his veins, and he worked his jaw just to feel the sharp pain of the bruise. The glowing after-effect of Elena's kiss had long since passed. Gawain closed his eyes as he knocked thrice.

"Enter."

Bryce's quarters were just as dark as the rest of them, illuminated by a single candle on the desk. He was seated on the edge of the bed, wiping down a blade lying across his lap. Gawain couldn't be certain whether the sword actually required polishing, or Bryce was simply going through the motions to keep his hands occupied.

"General Gawain." Bryce looked up, immediately ceasing the polishing. Gawain had been at a loss for words before he even entered the room, but Bryce's morose look made any attempt at conversation worse. To his great relief, he did not have to initiate. "It seems you have heard."

"I spoke with Tauroneo and Lanvega just now." He forced himself not to use their ranks, which felt foreign. Bryce's hesitation indicated that he, too, felt the absence like a hole in his chest.

"I suspect Tauroneo will accept his new rank?"

"Knowing him, I have little doubt. He's a stubborn old goat; he'll never retire." Gawain sat at the desk; the candle flickered and illuminated his face. Bryce noticed the injuries immediately.

"By the goddess," he said, lying the blade beside him to lean forward. "What in Ashera's name happened to you?"

"I had to prove myself worthy before the king," he said simply. He was already weary of sharing the tale; luckily Bryce did not push the issue.

"I suppose my time will come as well. You have seen Lanvega's wound, I suspect?" Gawain nodded.

Despite the circumstances, being able to talk with Bryce calmed the burn of rage within him. Bryce made it seem easy—follow the orders of the king, for His Majesty knows what is right for our country. It is not our duty as servants of the king to question his motives.

If only Gawain was that certain.

"I suppose they will have to be replaced," he said, rubbing his jaw. He winced.

"General, don't touch it," Bryce said, pushing his hand down. "Yes, I'm certain that His Majesty has prepared for such a situation. If he has demoted General Tauroneo, surely he already has a replacement in mind."

With anyone else, this simple statement would feel cold-hearted. But Bryce's dedication to the throne was unwavering, and Gawain knew he meant nothing personal by it because he knew Bryce as a general. Regardless, he sighed heavily and closed his eyes. With any new reign there was bound to be change, but could he remember changes such as these before, and so rapidly?

"You are a good general, Bryce," Gawain said when he opened his eyes.

"You're not bad yourself," Bryce replied with a smirk. "Even if you are stubborn and ask too many questions." Smiling too broadly hurt Gawain's jaw, but he couldn't help it. In a country where everything was changing, it was a comfort to talk with someone who never would.

* * *

"Urgent message for General Gawain."

Gawain had just exited King Ashnard's chamber, immediately coming face-to-face with the messenger. Having just heard the plans for the following day, the last thing he wanted to deal with was something marked _urgent_. More battle, more bloodshed.

Gawain accepted the parchment and began to walk away, but the messenger kept at his heels. He unsealed the letter, stopping in the middle of the corridor to cast an annoyed look at the messenger.

"Your immediate reply has been requested," he said, his voice timid.

Gawain sighed. "Give me a moment."

_My Gawain - There is something I must urgently share with you. I pray you are able to come this evening. Please make sure no one sees you leave. -Elena_

He turned the parchment over. That was all. It was unlike Elena to send an urgent message at all, never mind one so brief and rushed. The paper was spotted with dots of ink, as if she hadn't time to tap the excess off the quill.

He did not have a quill on him, naturally, but his response should be easy enough for the messenger to remember. "Yes," he said, rolling up the message. The messenger nodded and hurried down the corridor, leaving Gawain standing alone, frowning at the rolled parchment in his hand. He quickly tucked it into his breastplate.

Gawain was unable to concentrate for the remainder of the day. He had a sparring match with General Bryce, with King Ashnard watching them both carefully from the sidelines, and it was any wonder that Gawain emerged with all his limbs intact. As the match progressed, it was painfully obvious that Bryce was going easy on him. He only hoped Ashnard didn't notice.

He avoided the dining hall completely, not wanting to explain his distraction to anyone—especially Bryce, who had stared at him a little too long in the courtyard after the spar. Gawain welcomed himself into the kitchen, grabbing whatever food he could find that wasn't already on a platter—a ham steak and chunk of bread; luckily something with substance—before disappearing down the long corridor to his quarters.

He shouldn't have bothered with the bread, for he wasn't able to eat any of it. He stared down at Elena's letter, smoothing it down repeatedly on the desktop. _Please make sure no one sees you leave_. He managed to choke down the ham, then packed a small satchel with the bread and some extra provisions. It was likely he would be remaining at Palmeni that night. And if not, surely the priestesses wouldn't mind the extra food.

Gawain left his quarters long before nightfall. It was a wonder that Bryce hadn't stopped by, concerned about his poor performance that afternoon. Elena's urgency was making him increasingly uneasy. She may be a woman, and a priestess, but she was the strongest he knew. Things didn't often break her, and that thought alone made him quicken his pace.

A page was busying himself when Gawain reached the stable, trying to spy on him from behind his horse. He smirked. It was a boy he didn't recognize, and judging by his gaping expression he had never encountered one of the Riders in person.

Gawain approached Marek, rubbing his forehead lightly. "Fancy going for a stroll?" he murmured, and the horse snorted in reply.

It was still early to depart, but he mounted his steed regardless. He made a pact with himself that he wouldn't push Marek too hard, that Elena wasn't expected him until later in the evening. But he knew he would get there as soon as possible regardless.

Gawain paused by the page's stable on his way out, and the boy couldn't hide his wide-eyed, awed expression. Gawain tried to remember being that young and impressionable, but it seemed so far in the past. He thought he should offer some words of wisdom, but there was nothing he felt appropriate.

"Sir," the page said, slowly approaching, "you're one of the Four Riders, aren't you?"

Marek pawed at the ground. "I am."

He stood up straighter, offering him a salute. "Thank you for protecting our country. It is an honor to be speaking to you right now."

Gawain wished he had something to give the child, a trinket of some sort, but his armor at the moment was undecorated. He had to get going, but he couldn't help but admire his eagerness. "Please, hold your praise for His Majesty. I am but a loyal servant." It seemed the right thing to say, as the boy nodded vigorously. "Here." Gawain reached into his satchel, pulling out the first thing he grabbed—a handful of dried jerky—and held it out to him. "You are working hard. It looks like you haven't eaten all day." He couldn't actually tell if this was true.

The boy hesitated, and Gawain stuck out his arm further. He eventually reached for the jerky, holding it to his face to gratefully inhale its scent. "Thank you, Sir..."

"Gawain," he said, when the boy paused. "May your future be bright for the glory of Daein."

Marek, as if on cue, whinnied and trotted forward. Gawain glanced over his shoulder to see the boy waving frantically, already gnawing on the jerky. _Good kid_, he thought. _Having a boy like that wouldn't be so bad..._

Marek led the way on his own, and Gawain's thoughts had been so preoccupied that he didn't notice Palmeni rising over the horizon. He tethered the horse in the usual spot, praising him for another successful trip, and was surprised to see Elena approach before he entered the temple.

She pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh. Follow me."

She didn't give him a chance to reply as she tugged at his hand, leading him into the temple. She paused before a staircase, quickly checking to confirm no one was around, then hurried downstairs. He kept hold of her hand, their fingers intertwined behind her back. She released him when they came into the dungeon.

There were few things that surprised Gawain anymore, but _this _was certainly more than he expected. He was fully aware of Elena watching him. The room was small, holding only a single, musty bed, but what threw him into a shock was the white heron standing in the corner.

"Lillia?" Elena said, slowly approaching the heron.

Gawain sucked in his breath when she turned. He had never seen a heron of the royal family, and her beauty far surpassed the legends. Her long, blond hair cascaded in waves, her skin the color of cream. He feared approaching her at all, for her bones looked fragile enough to be snapped by the slightest touch. But Elena handled her delicately, holding her hands as the heron walked across the tiny room.

"Gawain," she said, motioning to him. Lillia nodded, as if she understood. Elena turned to him. "She doesn't speak our tongue, but we've managed to communicate a little."

"I don't..." Gawain shook his head. "I don't understand why she is here. How is she alive?" The Serenes massacre of last year was well-known throughout Tellius, but it was believed that the entire race of herons had burned in the flames.

"I don't think she's the only one," Elena said, keeping hold of her hand. "Herons are very in-tune with their kind. She is sad, but I feel it would be much worse if her entire family was gone." Lillia's face was turned to the floor, hidden behind her hair. Even in her pain, she radiated in her otherworldly beauty. Elena cleared her throat. "Lillia," she said, turning again to the heron, "you should try to get some rest." It was doubtful that she understood, but when Elena guided her toward the bed she obediently followed. Lillia said something in reply, her voice soft and soothing even if he couldn't understand a word of it. She put her hand to her chest, but Elena shook her head. Lillia was adamant, though, and slipped something off from around her neck. The heron looked at Gawain, her green eyes deep and searching, and nodded. She pressed something into Elena's hands, wrapping her fingers around it. Elena frowned, but Lillia was smiling.

"All right," Elena said, sighing. Lillia lied on the bed, but her eyes were wide open when they left. Gawain didn't speak until they reached Elena's room in the back of the temple. She collapsed at the small table, hiding her clasped hands in her lap.

"Why is she here?" Gawain tried to keep his voice even, and he couldn't understand his range of emotion. Distress? Anger? But at who?

"Gawain, please. Sit down." He awkwardly sat at the table, his armored body too big for the chair and his scabbard pressed against his thigh.

She shared the tale. King Ashnard came by a week prior with Lillia, trying to be discreet as he forcibly dragged her to the basement. Elena was praying at the altar late into the night, but she couldn't ignore the whimpering in the outer hall.

A small voice within her said not to move. It was not the first time King Ashnard had been at there, and just seeing him sent a shiver of fear through her body. He had never approached her directly, but the way he roamed the temple and eyed the priestesses made them turn away and busy themselves with whatever happened to be at hand.

"It might sound sinful," Elena said, "but we felt that his presence soiled the place."

Gawain nodded. "I don't think you'll be denied Paradise for _that_."

But it felt different when King Ashnard left that evening. She stopped in the middle of her prayers as an unexpected warmth spread through her. And there was a voice—she wasn't sure whether it was audible in the sanctuary or if it spoke only to her, but it called her to the dungeon rooms.

She was shocked to see someone huddled in one of the dank rooms, and even more surprised that she had a pair of glittering, white wings. The heron was shaking, hugging her knees to her chest. Elena couldn't see her beyond the fountain of blond hair.

Their bond was instantaneous. Neither spoke the other's language, but it seemed Lillia understood Elena's soul. In their first attempt at conversation, she had pressed her hand to her chest and then made the same motion over Elena's heart. Surely Lillia could feel the pride that swelled within her, the quickening of her pulse.

King Ashnard had returned several times since that night, and Elena winced every time she heard his bellowing from the dungeons. The other priestesses tried their hardest to ignore it, moving as far away from the basement entrance as possible. And each time he departed, Elena hurried downstairs. Lillia was often left in tears, her white skin even paler, and she allowed Elena to put an arm around her shoulders and sing until she calmed down.

Elena stopped talking. Gawain's face was screwed up as he tried to put the pieces together.

"But..." He massaged his temples. "_Why_? Why is she being kept here at all?"

Elena spread her hands over the tabletop. She stared down, curling her fingers around the object they concealed. She hunched her shoulders to lean in closer to Gawain. When their eyes met, hers were filled with warmth and fear, and he wondered how those clear, blue eyes could hold such a complex range of emotion.

"You have heard the legend of Lehran's Medallion?" She opened her hands, keeping her fingertips on the medallion as if protecting it. He leaned over the table.

"This can't be," he murmured.

"King Ashnard has been trying to force Lillia to wake the dark god within it. She has sung the galdr, but it..."

He put a hand over hers. "Slow down."

Elena tore her hands—and the medallion—away, but not before his skin had touched its surface. A searing pain tore through his limbs and his chest felt it would burst with anger, his muscles contracting on their own accord. When he came to, the table had been split in half, shredded like paper, and the chair across from him vacated.

"Elena?" His voice was panicked.

"Over here." She stood on the opposite side of the room, clutching the medallion to her chest with tears brimming in her eyes. "I... forgive me."

Gawain looked down at the splintered table. "What was _that_?"

Elena slipped the medallion around her neck, tucking it beneath her robes. "That was Yune."

It was the thing of legends, and it was _there_. Worn by his fiancée. He knew the tale. Fighting the dark god, sealing her in the medallion... many believed it to be a fabrication, this division between order and chaos. Because chaos still existed in this world, did it not? How could mere mortals seal away something they cannot control?

But the chaos of this world was nothing like he had felt in those few seconds. His arms still tingled, chest heaving with anger. If the goddess of chaos was capable of emotions such as that, he was grateful the legendary heroes had sealed her away. He vowed to pray at Ashera's altar before leaving the temple.

"I forbid you to hold that thing," he said, rising from the chair. But he realized it didn't make sense the moment he said it. Why was she not reacting to it?

Elena's face assumed her usual sweetness as she giggled. "You forbid me, do you? You think you have such power over me?"

He looked away, clenching his fists. "I did not mean it like that."

She glided over to him, then pressed her hands to his chest and kissed his cheek. "I know. But do not fret; it does not affect me. I don't quite understand it myself," she said, noticing his raised eyebrow. "The herons are able to carry it safely, and—if I understand Lillia correctly—so am I, because order and chaos are balanced within me."

It was almost too much to comprehend. He took hold of her hands and brought them to his lips. He still held them after kissing them, and her fingertips started to trace his jaw.

There was a knock on the door. Elena whipped around, leaving the shadow of her fingers on his skin. She answered the door to one of the temple priestesses, who flushed crimson the moment she noticed Gawain standing in the room.

"The... heron..." she stammered. "She is calling for you."

Gawain strode toward the door without her having to ask.

Lillia was curled on the bed, not having moved since they left. Elena crouched beside her, resting her hands on the heron's arm. She spoke something in the ancient tongue. Gawain was unable to understand the words, but he knew enough to understand the distress in her voice. Elena herself understood little, but from their nightly conversations picked up on some stray syllable—enough for her to understand Lillia's plight.

Elena rose slowly, her arms hanging limply at her side. Her eyes searched Gawain's, then looked back down at the heron's face. Lillia nodded firmly. She, too, looked at Gawain, as if examining him.

"She says we should go," Elena said, simply.

"Go where?"

"To Serenes. The medallion must be returned to the forest."

Gawain shook his head. "Not yet. There is much that needs to be done."

But over the next several weeks, Elena's letters became more and more desperate. She was grateful that she was there to care for Lillia when she was not being tortured to sing, but Ashnard's presence was weighing on them both. He always wrote back, _be careful_, lest she cross the king's path. She was distressed that Lillia was growing weaker, locked in that dank room, and hardly responded at all lately when Elena sang.

But there was one thing that kept Lillia going, and that was passing the sacred galdr to Elena. It made Gawain anxious. Only herons could sing the galdr; what was Lillia planning? Elena, too, seemed to be holding a secret, but her secrets were not kept from Gawain for long. It was easy to put together the pieces—Lillia had once urged them to leave. This was preparation. So Gawain prepared to leave, too.

He felt slightly guilty that he told no one, but he could not put his comrades in danger. Gawain put up a convincing front, sharing his troubles with no one. When he received another urgent message from Elena, he knew it was time.

_I need you. Tonight. Please. -E_

When he reached Palmeni Temple he had planned to go directly to the dungeon, but stopped just at the entrance. There was the distinct sound of sobbing from the sanctuary. Curious, he slipped his head in; he had wanted to deny the possibility, but he knew even before seeing that it was Elena sitting before the shrine, shoulders heaving.

"Elena?" Gawain knelt and put an arm around her shoulders. She didn't even turn to greet him. He tightened his grip, pressing his lips into her hair.

"Gawain... Lillia..." He felt his own eyes misting over when she looked up. No woman should look so distressed; tears spilled over her cheeks and salt tracks were dried on her face. He could see the outline of the medallion hidden beneath her robes. "She's gone," Elena whispered. "Lillia died."

The thoughts in Gawain's mind were like a tangled thread, struggling to unwind itself, as he processed several things at once: Ashnard desired to release the dark god. Ashnard wanted power. No one could touch that medallion but Elena. She was in danger. They could not take a direct route to Serenes, else they be followed. They would have to leave Daein.

They would leave Daein.

Forever.


	4. Chapter 4

Daein, the year 627

Chapter Four

King Ashnard stood over the balcony, opening his arms to the commoners below. The sea of people swarmed, shoving one another for a better view. Soldiers stood guard at the base of the dual staircases to ward off any trying to climb the stairs. The scene was chaotic, and Ashnard lifted his head as he proudly smiled at them.

"Loyal subjects!" he roared. The crowd instantly fell silent. "Thank you celebrating the start of my reign over our beloved country. Long live Daein!"

"Long live Daein!" his people shouted in unison, throwing their arms into the air.

Coronation day was even more grand than he had imagined. Ashnard had never witnessed a coronation himself, and was mildly surprised by the number of people that could crowd into the palace courtyard. They shouted and cheered at the conclusion of his speech, relieved to once again have a capable king in control of their country.

The plague had passed. Rumors had spread that he, King Ashnard, had aided in thwarting the unknown illness. It had stopped claiming lives when he had ascended to the throne, after all. His people reveled in his strength, grateful that there was one left of the royal family who could rule over them, grateful that that person was so strong, and so powerful. _He will do right by our country_, they boasted, throwing themselves at his feet.

"Silence!" A dull murmur spread over the crowd. "My people, I am grateful for your loyalty to Daein. This may be a day of celebration, but we must always keep our guard up! Men of Daein, it is your duty to protect our country. If you have not yet proven your dedication by enlisting as a soldier, do so now! We need all able-bodied men for service. With your help, Daein will continue to be a land where our wives and children are safe!" The crowd applauded, louder, jostling toward the stairs. The guards pushed them back with their lances, pressing their bodies to the hoard of commoners.

Ashnard glanced over his shoulder at his subordinates. General Bryce nodded subtly, pleased with his king's speech. He stood rigid, shoulders square, hand rested on the hilt of his sheathed blade. Beside him, Ashnard's newly-promoted knights, their promotions to Riders planned in the near future—not that they knew. Zelgius, young and proud, who had trained under General Gawain and had yet to lose a battle. King Ashnard gritted his teeth, recalling the way Gawain slipped from his fingers—in the dead of night, undetected. It couldn't be a coincidence that the medallion disappeared the same night. Gawain's whereabouts were still unknown, despite the numerous search parties. _Traitor_.

On General Bryce's other side stood Petrine, a fearful woman. She quickly averted her eyes when Ashnard looked at her. _Good, she still fears me_, he thought. But she had proven herself worthy time and time again, most recently commanding her battalion to cut down an army of invading sub-humans. Ordinarily this would not be worth boasting for his knights, but Petrine had laughed through the battle, the glitter in her eyes a rival only to his own.

Ashnard looked up at the towering façade of the palace. He sneered; he _knew_ there would be a face peeking out the upper window. Lady Almedha, princess of Goldoa, traitor to her nation. Now she was his. His body burned seeing her emerald-green hair fill the window, her eyes seeking over the crowd. The gaze rested on him. He caught the hint of a smirk before her face disappeared.

"Bryce." Ashnard turned his back to the crowd, which still cheered for him. "We are done here. Come to my quarters." The citizens cried out when he strode toward the balcony's double doors. He hadn't bothered to wave goodbye.

General Bryce obediently followed to King Ashnard's quarters. Under normal circumstances, they would have discussed business matters in the throne room. But there was one topic in particular that was mentioned only in the king's chambers, hidden from gossiping ears, and Bryce held back a frustrated sigh. He hardly wanted to go through this again.

The two guards on duty his chamber swiftly opened the doors as they approached. "Leave us," he said, and the doors closed behind them just as quickly.

Ashnard paced the room, his fists clutching the edges of his cape. Bryce remained by the doorway, arms pressed to his sides, holding his head up. It was several minutes before Ashnard stopped and turned toward him.

"My coronation was flawless," he said, boring his eyes into Bryce's, "aside from the simple matter of having only one Rider."

"It is unfortunate," Bryce replied. "But I am certain Your Majesty will appoint generals suitable for—"

"That is not what I'm talking about." Ashnard slowly approached, standing so close that their toes nearly touched. "I want to know where Gawain is."

The question was inevitable, and General Bryce offered the same reply as always when the topic arose. "There has been no word from our scouts. His whereabouts are still unknown."

Ashnard's face leaned in closer, breath hot on Bryce's skin. "But you know where he went."

In the beginning, he had regretted that Gawain had not revealed his plans. But surely he had known that such inquiries were inevitable, that the remaining Rider would answer the same questions, again and again. Bryce could keep a straight face and reply honestly. "I assure you I do not, Your Majesty. I was uninformed that he had left the premises."

"Useless fools," King Ashnard muttered, swinging his cape as he turned. Bryce allowed himself a quick intake of breath as his back was turned. "He was weak, anyway. I have no patience for weak men." Bryce made no reply, for they were both aware of the fallacy in the statement. "What's the use of having these famed Riders if they're useless to me? I should have you replaced."

"I implore you to reconsider. I have been your loyal subject since the moment you were announced as successor. Have I led Your Majesty astray?"

The question hung in the air, as if King Ashnard didn't already know the answer. As if General Bryce wasn't a loyal dog. "No." But then he smiled, setting himself on a velvet chair across the room. "But how would you feel working beside Petrine?"

"Petrine would make a fine Rider," he replied automatically. "It would be an honor."

"Ha!" Ashnard smacked the arms of the chair. "I knew you would say that. Predictable. That woman is a terror."

"She is a loyal knight of Daein."

"Mmm. You are right. I think I'll promote her," he said thoughtfully, as if he hadn't already made that decision.

"Your Majesty," Bryce said, hesitantly, "do you intend to fill the remaining positions as well?"

"As soon as I find someone worthy of my time."

There had been many applicants for the vacated Rider positions over the past year, but Ashnard had dismissed them all. It was a sign of weakness, he had said, that they had approached him at all. He would not employ someone who _begged_ for the position. It was pathetic. He liked Petrine; she was feisty. She was a woman with the strength of ten men.

"Get her in here," Ashnard said, and Bryce bowed before disappearing into the corridor.

Petrine brushed aside the promotion casually, like she knew it was coming, like she was annoyed that it took this long to acquire the title. She was immediately fitted for her armor, and it looked as if she had been wearing the coal black armor of the Riders all her life. Crowds of people parted and pressed against corridor walls when she passed. Ashnard watched from the sidelines, pleased.

"She is an intolerable woman," Lady Almedha commented, watching General Petrine train her subordinates from her chamber window. She could clearly hear her every command and insult, even from three stories up.

"I know," Ashnard replied, chuckling as he snaked a hand around her stomach.

Any other monarch would be content with the way the country molded around him, but King Ashnard still had a burning rage within him. After all that trouble, he had lost the blasted medallion. That stupid heron died on him, but it was just as well—her gadlr had no effect on the medallion, and she was useless anyway since its disappearance. Ashnard moved away from Almedha with a grunt. She ignored it. She knew well enough not to speak when his face was creased in shadows. She expected the acidic tirade to begin soon enough.

"What a bunch of worthless minions," Ashnard grumbled, throwing a fist at the stone wall. He rubbed his knuckles. "Can't you track him down with... whatever you can do?"

"Unfortunately not," she said, still staring out the window. She had been largely unresponsive lately, speaking only when he commanded. In the courtyard below, a soldier was whimpering as General Petrine held his arm behind his back. She flung him to the ground.

"No matter," Ashnard said, squeezing his arms around her waist. He lowered his voice to a murmur. "Even if the medallion is not in my possession, it will still react to war. Things are going as planned, are they not?"

"Yes, darling." He squeezed her tighter; she let out a small yelp.

"What is wrong with you?" He asked, backing away. "Am I losing my allure? You don't want me anymore?"

"Not at all, nothing like that," Almedha answered. When she turned, Ashnard's gaze shamelessly scaled her body. She waited for his eyes to fix on hers, and recognized the insatiable hunger within them. But the glint faded when she did not say anything more.

"I have little patience for these games." He turned swiftly toward the door.

"I am pregnant." Almedha hadn't expected to share the news in this manner; she desired to wait for a time when she felt more confident. But her condition was physically draining her, and soon it would be impossible to hide the news.

Almedha had feared his reaction, but his eyes widened with—could it be?—_delight_. "Excellent!" He strode to her with his arms open wide, all animosity vanished. "With both our powers combined, a child would be..." he could not finish his thought. He grasped both her shoulders and pushed her against the wall, pressing their lips together. She could feel his smile against her own. She idly wondered how long it would take him to notice she was not quite herself.

In the coming weeks Ashnard watched for outward signs of her condition, the pregnancy taking far too long for his liking. Meanwhile, his attention focused again on tracking down the medallion. All of his leads were dead-ends, and he was growing agitated. There were nights that Almedha did not visit his quarters at all, for she could hear his bellowing long before she reached the chamber doors. She quickly retreated before he could hear her footsteps, a hand protecting the small mound on her abdomen.

If there was one thing Ashnard wasn't completely disappointed with, it was his Riders. They were permitted free reign to guard the lands as they saw fit. As the weeks progressed, he saw less and less of Generals Bryce and Petrine at Daein Keep, and he was satisfied enough with their absence. Giving orders was well and good, but he didn't need them constantly groveling at his feet requesting orders. He had other matters on his mind.

General Petrine had returned one afternoon for her weekly report. But midway through, Ashnard was increasingly distracted by the sound of heavy wings flapping overhead. He looked sideways at Petrine, who could not hide her curiosity. They strode to the balcony as the shadows of wyverns crossed over the courtyard—Begnion soldiers, it seemed. But they were not poised for attack; their weapons were sheathed to the sides of their mounts.

"Your Majesty," she said, suddenly awed, "they're coming down."

"I can see that."

General Petrine followed him into the courtyard as the battalion landed, the wyverns tucking in their wings when their feet hit the ground. One of the men dismounted, presumably the commander, to approach.

"What do you want?" Ashnard asked, when the man reached him.

He fell to one knee, bowing low before the king. "I am Commander Shiharam, formerly of Begnion's dracoknights. I and my men offer our services for the glory of Daein."

A low snort escaped from Petrine as King Ashnard looked over the squad. All the men kept their eyes forward; not one looked down at their groveling commander. Their eyes were fixated on Daein Keep itself. "Get up," Ashnard finally said, pulling Shiharam by the collar. The commander stumbled slightly as he regained his footing. "_Formerly_? And how do I know you will not show Daein such... _loyalty_?"

He was sorely disappointed when the commander did not react to the accusatory question. He stood rigid, his features firm. "We are no longer fit for service under Begnion. I pray you understand that our reasons are"—he paused—"personal. But we respect Your Majesty and Daein's ideals, and request that we may be able to adopt them as our own."

He looked up at Shiharam's men. "Tell them to stand down."

"Your Majesty?" Petrine had finally spoken from behind him. Shiharam, deliberately ignoring General Petrine, turned to give his men the signal to dismount. There was a mass shuffle as the wyverns shifted to let down their soldiers.

"They have traveled from Begnion to speak with me, and we are in need of able-bodied men. This must be a gift from the goddess herself." He waited for the men to gather behind their commander, but one person in particular caught his eye—not a man at all, but a tiny, red-haired child. She could not be more than two years old, and she clung desperately to the leg of a soldier with an eye patch. The girl stared wide-eyed at the courtyard, then ducked behind the man's leg when she caught King Ashnard staring at her. He narrowed his eyes.

"Petrine."

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"You will oversee them."

Her mouth fell open. "This rabble of _foreigners_?" she sputtered, unable to mask the contempt in her voice.

"They are under your command."

Shiharam bowed his head, clasping his hands. "Thank you, Your Majesty. We are ever in your debt."

"Right." He looked to Petrine, who was still fuming. "You were saying the sub-humans were invading Talrega, were you not? These men will settle there." He turned again to Shiharam. "You will answer to General Petrine."

Shiharam and Petrine exchanged a brief glance before the commander agreed. His men looked relieved. And it was convenient, having this band of dracoknights appear just as Daein needed additional soldiers. Ashnard turned up the staircase as General Petrine began giving commands, adopting her new duties straightaway. He watched the battalion from his perch on the balcony. They climbed on their wyverns for departure, and he found himself staring at the one-eyed soldier as he hoisted the little girl onto his mount. Commander Shiharam glanced at them as she squealed in delight, swinging her tiny legs.

At the very least, it was doubtful he would hear anything from them in the backwater region of Talrega. They had their hands full, too—the area was prone to flooding, and winter seemed to last year-round. Ashnard didn't really care _why_ they left Begnion, but as long as they didn't bother him they could stay in Talrega the rest of their lives. They were likely the only ones who would be living out there.

King Ashnard stood at the window, watching the wyverns fly east. A knight was galloping below them, guiding them to their new home.

General Petrine was obviously displeased when she returned to the king's quarters, but knew better than to complain. "Satisfied with your new subordinates?" he asked, when she closed the door behind her.

"If it is Your Majesty's wish," she replied. "At least I don't have to bother with that half-breed–infested backwater. They will organize sub-human hunts. It will keep them busy."

"Good." Ashnard clasped his hands behind his back. "I have new orders for you, General. There is much that still has to be done."

She bowed at the waist. "By your command."


	5. Epilogue

Gallia, the year 629

Epilogue

The royal hall was filled with soldiers from all over Tellius. Laguz guards lined the perimeter of the hall. Greil stood beside the throne, surveying the crowd. He marveled to see knights from different countries getting along, beorc and laguz alike. Though they hardly had a choice—the guards kept a careful watch, and would not hesitate to pin down anyone who caused trouble.

"Do you see anyone you know?"

Greil turned toward the voice at the throne. "None, Your Majesty."

King Caineghis nodded. That simple nod contained a great deal of relief.

Gallia had been the best place to hide. He and Elena had planned to return the medallion to Serenes, but the detour meant they could not be followed easily. The king of Gallia was curious when the beorc refugees approached him, and General Gawain did not hesitate to explain their plight. It was risky revealing his identity, but it was the only way to gain the king's trust. Caineghis empathized with his desperation. Greil was safe in Gallia, with his new family and his new name. He had not expected to love the country so much; their residence was going on three years.

Greil had already sparred with two of Crimea's soldiers in succession, winning both matches, and the next was a fiery, axe-wielding woman. Greil was impressed. She stared hard at him in her advance, never breaking eye contact. She may have been feminine, with her form-fitted armor and heavy red braid, but the determination in her face was unyielding.

"Captain Titania," she said, "of the Crimean Royal Knights."

Greil stepped down from dais. They bowed low to each other, readying their weapons.

"Begin!" King Caineghis roared.

The match was quickly over. Titania knelt to the ground, grasping her bloodied arm. A healer quickly advanced. Greil had not expected the knight to look up at him—most kept their heads lowered in pain and defeat—but she stared at him. There was no malice, nor embarrassment for losing. He recognized that look. As he turned toward the throne, the long-forgotten face of Zeligus flashed in his mind: Young, eager, willing to learn. It was the look of admiration.

Following each of the sparring matches—Greil had overtaken them all—King Caineghis dismissed the visiting officers for the evening. The knights and soldiers clumped into groups, chatting excitedly as they exited the royal hall.

"You won't be staying for supper?" King Caineghis asked Greil as he sheathed his sword.

"You know my duty lies elsewhere, Your Majesty." King Caineghis smiled. Greil's evening duty always included a small, blue-haired baby.

A voice spoke from behind him. "Sir Greil."

Fairly surprised, he turned to see the red-haired knight. She still held her axe, like he would again try to overtake her.

"Dame Titania," he said, curious. "What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to say..." she paused, taking in a breath, "your swordsmanship is flawless. It's like nothing I have ever seen."

"Thank you, dame knight."

"I wanted to request... if it would not be too much trouble... would you train me?"

Their brief spar was one of the few that stood out in his mind. The way she looked at him afterward, no fear in her eyes. "You are a spirited opponent," he said, and she flushed at his praise. "But there is still much you could learn. Yes, I will train you." He glanced toward the exit, where the last of the knights were departing. "Are you free now? I have business I must attend to tonight, but we could meet briefly to attest your skill."

"Yes!" She bowed her head, clutching the axe in both hands. "Thank you, Sir Greil. It is an honor."

* * *

"You're home late."

Elena embraced her husband the moment he walked through the door. Greil threaded his fingers through her hair, secretly peering over her head at their small living quarters. It was too late for the baby to be awake, but he always checked. The floor was empty, the nursery door shut tight.

Elena sat with him as he wolfed down his cold supper, bragging about the Crimean knight he had the joy of training. She reached for his hand. "You miss it, don't you?"

He paused, chewing slowly. Not for the first time, he wondered how high Zeligus had climbed Daein's ranks. How Tauroneo was coping with his new position. He felt her fingers slide through his. "I would be lying if I said I didn't. But I don't regret any of this." He glanced at the nursery door. "We have built a fine life here."

"But we cannot remain in Gallia forever," she reminded him.

He nodded as he speared a piece of potato.

Before long, Elena insisted that Titania join them for supper. Greil had spent many evenings training the Crimean knight and their relationship surpassed that of mentor and student, developing into something akin to friendship. Titania eagerly agreed to meet his family. She was visibly nervous when approaching the door, but her anxiety vanished when she stepped inside. The tranquility of Greil's home was nothing like the intensity of training. His wife was seated in a rocking chair, a small bundle of cloth in her arms. Titania spied the tiny face poking out of the swaddle. Elena carefully rose from the chair. "Let me just put him down," she whispered, moving to a small side room.

"He is the sweetest," Titania said. In Greil's smile, there was no denying the father behind the warrior. They watched Elena's shadow on the nursery wall as she set the infant down to sleep.

Not once during supper did Titania feel she was intruding. Greil and Elena welcomed her like family. Greil had shared everything with his wife about this red-tressed Crimean knight, and she flushed every moment he praised her.

"He isn't that nice when he's tearing me down in a spar," she said. Elena giggled behind her napkin.

Time spent with his family became custom. She loved the nights that she arrived early to greet little Ike, and he took to her quickly. Greil watched Elena and Titania sit on the floor with the baby toddling between them, and it felt like Titania had been there all their lives. Ike climbed on her lap to bat at her braid, and she didn't even complain when he yanked on it.

"Ike, come now," Elena said, pulling the boy back, who still stretched out for the red hair.

Much to their dismay, the exchange program quickly came to a close. Greil insisted on one last match before Titania went home; naturally, she could not resist. She was surprised when she pinned Greil to the floor in victory, the blade of her axe pressed against his chest. "You let me win," she said, backing away.

He chuckled as he sat up. "If you could tell, you've much improved."

"I can't thank you enough for all you've done," she said, sitting beside him. "I never imagined I'd be doing all this when I registered for the program. And your family..."

"Dame Titania." His formality caught her off-guard. "Do you wish to stay? To be a mercenary?"

She could not answer right away, but she did not say no. The question remained unanswered when she returned to Crimea the following day, and Greil took a brief respite from jobs to spend time with his son. Ike did little but stare at him wide-eyed, but he couldn't look away from those big, blue eyes.

"Is there any of me in this boy?" Greil asked, holding the baby in the air. Ike squealed, kicking his feet.

"He's _all_ you!" Elena cried, swatting his arm. She hugged him from behind, peering at their son over his shoulder. She nuzzled his back.

The sound of approaching hooves distracted them both; they stared at each other inquisitively. Visitors were uncommon this early in the day. Elena took the baby when Greil strode to the window. But he broke into a smile when he parted the curtains, already reaching for the door. "It's Dame Titania."

Titania was a formidable sight on her horse, galloping toward their home with her hair streaming behind her. The animal seemed to reflect her rider's demeanor, overexcited yet determined, and Greil felt a pang of regret. He prayed that Marek had a good owner now.

Titania dismounted before the horse came to a full stop. "Sir Greil." She was breathless, sweat dripping from her forehead and her cheeks windburned. "I want to be a mercenary. It would be an honor to work under you."

"You will leave the Crimean Knights to work under my command?"

She did not hesitate to answer. "Yes."

"Then you will address me as Commander."

"Yes, Commander Greil."

As much as Greil had enjoyed Gallia, it was time to relocate to a beorc country. With plans for a mercenary team, he and his Deputy Commander agreed they would be more successful in Crimea. There was still great animosity between beorc and laguz outside the royal court, and they wanted to avoid taking jobs from the laguz who needed it. King Caineghis was disappointed to lose one of his best mercenaries, but wished them well. They met the king at the palace before crossing the border.

"You are always welcome in Gallia," King Caineghis said. He watched Elena try to handle a squirming Ike, who was determined to get down from her arms. "May Ashera bless you and your family. I look forward to seeing the little one when he grows into a warrior like his father." He patted Ike's head; the baby immediately stopped fidgeting to stared wide-eyed at that oversized hand.

Titania did not discuss her retirement from the Crimean Knights, and Greil did not ask. Likewise, he did not reveal his own history right away. The small team settled into a mercenary fort in Crimea, and no one loved the vast space more than Ike. Elena had her hands full keeping him away from the staircases and out of the weapons convoy.

It did not take Greil's mercenary team long to gain renown. The two were confident and excelled at their jobs, and many inquired why they were mere mercenaries. But neither would elaborate, simply stating that they enjoyed their work and wanted only to assist others. It was mostly true.

"How do you feel about expanding the team?" Greil asked one day, when he and Titania settled into a pub after a job. "We are capable on our own, but we could get more and better jobs if we were a solid group."

Titania nodded as a waitress dropped two steins on their table. "I agree. How do you propose we find new members?"

He laughed. "You are my second in command. That's your job." As she tapped her fingernails on her stein, a table of rough-looking mercenaries caught her eye. They were clearly in some sort of disagreement: Gold was spread across the table, and two of them were pointing fingers at each other. One of the men stood and slammed his hand on the table, causing the gold to rattle. He leaned over, the end of his long ponytail brushing his clenched fist.

"Looks like trouble," she mumbled, jerking her chin toward the group of vagrants.

Greil looked over his shoulder. The ponytailed man jabbed the other guy in the chest. A blond-haired mercenary quickly stood, smiling nervously as he physically pushed the two away from each other. They both punched him in the face.

It was an odd time to reminisce, but Greil found himself thinking of the basement pub at Daein Keep. These mercenaries were nothing like the Four Riders, but a heated discussion around a splintered table had its memories. And he thought of them all. Of Tauroneo, Bryce, Lanvega. Of Zelgius, of Tauroneo's sons. Of King Ashnard.

The guy who had been jabbed in the chest flipped the table. The blond mercenary yelped, scooping gold off the floor, but the ponytailed man simply laughed as he crossed his arms.

"Commander Greil?" Titania said, tentatively.

He stared at the group. Some had visible scars; some had hardened faces, their scars too deep to show. He thought of Elena, and of Ike. He stood from the table.

"Commander," Titania warned. "You're not considering—"

But he was already striding toward the group.

"You a mercenary?" Greil asked the ponytailed man, ignoring the others. The answer was obvious. A lance leaned against the wall, a bow and quiver on the floor beside it.

"What's it to you?" The man looked Greil up and down, surveying him.

"You want work?"

He laughed, throwing his head back. "What, you wanna be my savior? You always go 'round picking up vagrant mercenaries?"

"Shinon." The blond finally stood from the floor, arms full of gold. "You know we need—"

"Shut up, Gatrie." He turned back to Greil. "So, what, you want me to prove myself or something? 'Cause I won't."

Greil shook his head. "I'll let the work speak for itself."

Shinon looked down at Gatrie, whose pleading look was impossible to ignore. Without a word, Shinon smirked and reached for the bow. Titania, still seated several tables away, inwardly groaned.

Greil extended a hand. "Welcome to the Greil Mercenaries."


End file.
